Page 24 of Backup Plan

They talked over each other, wanting to fill me in on every detail of their day today, plus the Mountain Dew from last night. Then it was soccer, baseball, McDonald’s because I’m mom of the year, reading, homework, bathtime, and finally, finally sweet bedtime.

It was one thing after another today, and I finally get to sit and decompress.

The television is off. My phone is across the room. It’s silent, and I listen to the lovely sound of silence after the chaos of the day.

And the first thought that comes to mind as I put my feet up on the coffee table despite scolding my children when they do it is Liam Bradley.

I let out a sigh as I recall his mouth dragging across my skin. His fingertips dancing along my spine. His cock as he shoved it between my breasts.

God, that was hot. So hot.

It’s been years since I’ve been with anyone other than Brent. Over a decade, now that I think about it. We were married over eight years. We were engaged for one and dated for more than one before that.

So Liam Bradley broke my Brent Calloway streak, and what a way to be reintroduced to a world I’d long forgotten.

Just as I settle back to dream of what a night that was, I hear the door open. Brent’s home. Late, of course. Right after I got the kids down, like he has cameras set up around here and waits so he doesn’t have to deal with his own kids—or waits until I’m finally alone and decompressing after a long, hard day, the majority of which I’ve had a pounding headache that’s the sum of too much wine and not enough sleep.

I don’t want to deal with him right now. At all.

It’s another reminder that I need to get the hell out of this house.

He walks in front of me and stops. He stares at me, and as I stare back, I tilt my head and try to find the man I married somewhere in there . He’s still packaged up in an attractive shell, but when the inside is as ugly as his is, well, he doesn’t look very good to me anymore.

“What?” I snap impatiently.

“This.” He nods at me. “This right here. In case you were wondering why I stepped outside our marriage, this is why.”

I glance down. I’m wearing my black work pants and my favorite pale pink blouse, and while I’m dying to get out of this outfit and into pajamas, I didn’t have the energy to walk all the way to the guest room I’ve moved into to change. I can’t imagine exactly what he’s talking about. “I just assumed you stepped out because you’re a fucking asshole.”

He rolls his eyes. “No. Because I’d come home from a long, hard day earning money to support this family only to find my wife lying across the couch when there’s still garbage from your fast food dinner on the table.”

Anger leaps through me. First of all, it’s not garbage. It’s toys from their Happy Meals, and Benji threw an absolute tantrum when I tried to throw away the box, so I let him keep it on the table by his place setting.

But this asshole in front of me didn’t bother to take one second to think about that.

God. Why the hell did I ever marry him? Lesson learned. I’m never getting married again. Ever.

“Fuck you, Brent,” I hiss.

“First you abandon our children on a weeknight to your mother’s house and don’t come home all night, and then you feed them trash and leave it all over the house?” He shakes his head like I’m the one who’s unbelievable here.

“I didn’t abandon our children! They had a sleepover at their grandmother’s house! And I don’t need to report back to you, but for your information, I had the best sex of my life last night.”

“While your children were where again?” He shoots me a smirk as he pulls his phone out of his front shirt pocket and presses a button. “Thanks. That’ll do.”

Lovely. The fucking bastard recorded me without my consent. He’ll conveniently delete the part where he baited me, and he’ll use it for whatever advantage he needs in court.

I’m not exactly sure what I did to deserve him, and I mean that in the most disrespectful way possible.

Honestly.

I was a good wife to him. A great one. I was faithful. I took—and still take—care of our two kids. I made sacrifices when he didn’t.

And this is how he treats me. The mother of his children. Does he even like his own children?

I silently berate myself for thinking that. Of course he does.

Except…